


Outsider Art by Arsenic

by Arsenic



Series: Dickens-verse [11]
Category: Bandom, Leverage, The Magnificent Seven (TV), White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidfic, Learning to be Loved, Orphans, hc_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's eighteenth birthday is fast approaching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outsider Art by Arsenic

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Discussion about, recovery from rape and severe trauma.
> 
>  **Notes:** Basically, there's a lot of crap in this story that falls under my rubric of 'because Dickens.' So, a) yes, I did retcon the timeline of my own fic, sorry about that, b) this is unbeta'ed, c) this should not be considered a good source for the reality of art therapy, d) OMG, ANYTHING legal in this section should be understood to be about as realistic as the physics of transportation. Maybe a little less so. Final note, I don't think there's actually anyone left in my life who will get the librarian joke in here, but if you do get it, please tell me, because it will make me really happy.
> 
> **_For my darlingest egelantier, on the occasion of her birthday and return from far away._ **

***

Gee checked the mail the day the papers came, largely because it was the same day his comics always came in the mail, and he was due new issues of Deadpool and Fantastic Four. Gee was not-so-secretly in love with Wade Wilson. Neal was not-so-secretly not Wade Wilson. Or any kind of superhero, for that matter.

Neal had just returned to school full-time. He'd had to start with half-days, sleeping through the afternoon and sometimes right past dinner, on until the next morning. He still was too worn to do anything other than go home and sleep after school. If nobody was available to pick him up, or if Parker, Eliot, Vin or Ezra couldn't go with him on the bus, he slept in the nurse's office. He'd tried taking the bus home by himself once and had fallen asleep, ending up back at the bus terminal two hours later, because the bus driver hadn't noticed him and Neal had slept through the ringing of his phone. Elizabeth and Peter had gotten all the kids phones after the abduction precisely so they could find each of them quickly if they were worried.

Every last person Neal knew had made him promise not to do it again, even Harvey. Granted, Harvey's approach was, "I need your testimony," but Neal understood Harvey's inability to say what he meant.

Gee tried curling into Neal, who was balled up beneath the covers of his bed. They'd done it a million times in their lives, bed-sharing, blanket-sharing, hell, one winter all three of them had found a way to share a coat. Neal woke to the feel of someone holding onto him and promptly lashed out, managing to kick Gee off the bed and into the wall.

Gee shouted, "Neal! Neal!" until it actually got through to Neal, at which point he realized he'd also jumped from the bed and was standing in a fight-or-flight position, panting and trembling.

Neal rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry, Gee."

Gee shook his head. "Shoulda known better. There was just something I thought you'd want to see."

He held out the envelope from CS. For a moment, one brief, delusional, lovely moment, Neal wondered if perhaps they could burn it in the fireplace. Then the real world hurtled right back into him and Neal took the envelope, working it open with a finger. He flipped through the documents, distantly familiar with the necessary steps to age a foster out. There had been a time when he'd thought such steps sounded like salvation.

There was a pamphlet for the foster parents on how to help an 18-year-old with the transition. It had sections labeled, "The Path to Adulthood," and "Life After Fostering." Nothing in the sections was all that interesting or even non-obvious. Neal suspected the pamphlet was in large part simply to remind most foster parents they'd stop receiving state aid for that kid.

The problem, as Neal saw it, was that he'd always thought he could live off his con skills when the time came. Only, that wasn't going to happen now. Even if he could have stood to be separated forcefully from the others when Peter and Elizabeth figured out what he was doing, the mere threat of prison paralyzed him from his brain down whenever it crossed his mind. Even the suggestion of being put back into a cage with other people was enough to have him swallowing bile.

Gee, who was fidgeting but hadn't left—despite the fact that he was probably going to be sporting bruises for a week—asked, "What're you going to do?"

Neal looked over at where Gee was carefully gazing in any direction except Neal's. Neal said, "Gee. Hey."

Gee gave him a sideways glance. Neal found his truest smile, because nothing else would get by Gee. "Things are going to be fine."

And they would be, for the others, no matter what Neal had to do to make it happen.

*

Neal had figured out that if he found somewhere to nap through lunch, his afternoon periods made way more sense. The doctors had said it would take a while before he'd start feeling like himself again, but Neal had kind of hoped against hope that he'd be up and running by the time he really needed to be. The fact that he wasn't was disappointing, but not surprising.

He generally grabbed whatever could be carried from the cafeteria, usually a piece of fruit and some juice or a roll and milk, ate quickly, and curled up somewhere he wouldn't be disturbed. He set the alarm on his phone and had the vibration wake him up so he could be at classes on time.

With that nap, and the nap after school, it was a squeeze, especially as he was still catching up on homework from his absence, but he could find time to peruse Peter's paper or log on to the computer at the Burke's and do some shopping around for entry-level jobs. Neal wasn't all that picky, but he had requirements. It had to make enough money for him to find shelter somewhere, because if any of the kids needed to come to him, he wasn't going to make them squat again. It also had to be near enough that he'd be able to see the others regularly.

The second requirement wasn't that hard to fulfill, there were plenty of retail jobs within a few bus stops and a quarter-mile walk. The first was a problem. Everywhere Neal could afford to live on his estimated salary was at least an hour away.

In the end, he did the only thing he could think of, even if he was loathe to do it: he made an appointment with Stark. Stark's place was about an hour away from the house, too, but the others regularly spent time there and vice versa. Neal scheduled the meeting for a Saturday when he knew Eliot and Parker were going out to the Tower.

When he got Stark alone, Stark asked, "Are you in trouble?"

 _Not the kind you're thinking._ Neal shook his head. "I just don't want to bother Peter and Elizabeth. They're swimming in adoption papers and already made sure to be there when I did my deposition."

"Yeah," Stark said, looking out the window for a moment. Neal remembered that Kat had agreed to testify. Stark pulled his gaze back. "What do you need?"

Neal smiled a bit. He'd thought about how to approach this, but his chest still felt tight. "I was thinking you could use some help around here."

Stark raised an eyebrow. "With?"

Neal shrugged, making himself stay loose. "Someone to stay with Kat and company when you and your wife are both needed elsewhere. Someone to do odd jobs. I clean a mean dish."

Stark crossed his arms over his chest. "What's this about, Neal?"

Neal straightened up. "My birthday is in a little less than six months."

Stark spread his hands. "And?"

"My eighteenth birthday," Neal said softly.

"Still not…oh."

Neal was about to say, "Mhm," when Stark's expression flickered just enough for Neal to pause, allowing Stark to say, "Look, Neal, I am not the person who should be giving talks about family unity to anyone, ever, but—it's not that I won't give you room and board in exchange for help around, if that's what you want, only, not before you've talked with your parents about it."

They weren't Neal's parents. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate all they'd done for him and the others, or even that he didn't lo—care enormously for them. But biological and adopted children didn't age out of a house. And that was something, that the others would all be adopted by the time they reached this point. He thought they might be able to get students loans or something. He shoved the line of thought away. That was later. "I wasn't planning on just taking my stuff and leaving in the middle of the night."

Actually, Neal was, but only because he didn't like goodbyes. And that way, since he'd see them all again, he'd never have to say it. Stark just looked at him. Neal said, "And it wouldn't be just in exchange. I'm going to get a job. I'll pay rent."

"You won't be finished with your junior year for another seven months."

Neal almost rolled his eyes. He didn't. "I'll do a GED. It’s not as if I'm applying to college."

"Why not?"

Neal took a breath, then another. "Just not the college-type."

It was Tony's turn to murmur, "Mm."

"If you feel uncomfortable—"

"Make you a deal," Stark said.

Neal wasn't an idiot. "The terms?"

"You talk to Elizabeth and Peter, tell them about this plan. Afterward, you come to me, you can have your room and I can even find you a job."

Neal could sense there was a trap, he just wasn't sure where it would spring. It was probably the best offer he was going to get, though, so he nodded. "May I have that in writing?"

Stark, the smartass, got the short statement notarized, handing it off to Neal as he was heading back with Eliot and Parker. Neal folded it carefully and hid it away underneath his mattress, where none of the other kids would stumble upon it.

*

Neal didn't let himself think about it too much, that was a sure way to put things off, lose this chance. He filled out his part of the discharge paperwork, put it neatly together and bussed into the city to Elizabeth's gallery one day after school. Eliot, Parker, Vin and Ezra had all wanted to go with him, but he'd said, "I need all of you to be separate from this."

Reluctantly, they'd all agreed. Neal stopped before he got to the gallery and picked Elizabeth up a latte from her favorite coffee place. He ordered clover coffee for Peter. Then he made himself walk inside the gallery and put a smile on and hand Elizabeth her coffee. Elizabeth took the coffee, but frowned. "Hey sweetie. What're you doing all the way out here?"

He'd wanted to do this somewhere that wasn't the house; he'd wanted to preserve that place in his mind. He should have warned her. "Sorry. Sor—"

She took one of his hands. "Let's go in my office."

He put the other cup of coffee on the desk once they got there, and Elizabeth looked at it for a moment before asking, "Want me to call Peter?"

Neal nodded. He'd do this twice if he had to, but once was very much preferable. She picked up her cell, and he only half-listened as she spoke with Peter. She hung up and said, "He's got to be there another ten minutes, but then he can get away."

The hospital was fifteen minutes from the gallery, so that left twenty-five minutes. Elizabeth said, "C'mon, I want to show you one of the new pieces."

She put her hand to his lower back and Neal consciously did not press into it. But he let her lead him to the painting like that, allowed himself to get lost in the dissonant colors of the piece for a bit. Maybe when he wasn't living with them anymore, he could come here sometimes, help out. He didn't think Elizabeth and Peter would care if he came around now and then, especially if he proved himself useful.

He wasn't letting himself think about what it would mean, being away from the others, not being able to look after them all the time. He'd been on his own once, he just had to remember who he was and he'd be fine.

Peter came in and checked Neal out physically, something he did compulsively since the abduction. Neal said, "I'm okay, promise."

Peter huffed, but went and microwaved the coffee so they could all sit down in the office. Without preamble, Neal took the papers out of his bag and put them on Elizabeth's desk. "These came a little while ago. I filled out my part, so all that's left is yours."

Elizabeth leaned in to read the papers. "These are aging-out papers."

"I turn eighteen in five months month." One hundred and forty-eight days, but Neal liked rounding up. It made it sound longer.

Peter grabbed the papers, rustling through them. Finally, he looked over at Neal. "You've written that you have shelter and employment settled. Are you—" He swallowed, then asked quietly, "Do you _want_ to leave when you turn eighteen? Is there something we could do to change your mind or is this just…do you just want independence too badly to be dissuaded?"

Neal cocked his head. He thought maybe Peter was confused. "You don't have to take responsibility for me after that. You've no financial commitment or—"

"Stop," Elizabeth nearly whispered. Neal looked over to see that she had her lips twisted, a sure sign she was trying not to cry. She gulped in a breath, then another. When she was calm enough she said, "Neal. We love you. We love you just the way you are. But someone, somewhere, or maybe a lot of someones taught you that you're unlovable, insignificant, and until you stop believing that, you are never going to understand that there isn't a number in the world, not age, not money, not _anything_ that would convince us not to keep you with us for as long as you'll allow."

"I don't—I know the others love me," Neal said, feeling like he was missing pieces, but not sure which ones.

"No," Elizabeth argued. "You know the others _need_ you. Which for you is the best you think you'll get, so you take it."

Neal wanted to scream, because this wasn't fair, this had nothing to do with anything. "Fosters are aged out. They don't—"

"But you're not a foster," Peter said, his tone frustrated. "That's…that's just a word. If we had the time to get you adopted, we would, and then you'd be ours and there would be almost nothing you could do about it, short of moving for emancipation. But we don’t have that time, so instead we have to hope that you're willing to stay because you care about us the way we care about you: like people in a family."

Neal wished he could crawl into their laps, even as the thought of touch still made him shiver a bit, too much of his mind still stuck in the cages, under the hands of the guard. He wished he knew what to do. Tired and out of ideas, he admitted, "I don't know how."

Elizabeth and Peter looked at each other, and Elizabeth said, "For now, let's just fill these papers out with the information that you'll be staying with us after your birthday, and continuing to attend school, all right?"

Numbly, Neal nodded. He wanted to believe them, wanted to think this was real, and they were offering him permanence, or the closest thing to it. But something would happen, it always did for people like Neal. Still, whatever they wanted, it was fine with him.

*

Things made a little more sense a few days later, when Elizabeth picked him up from school, telling Eliot and Parker that Mary was picking them up with Ezra and Vin. Neal got in the car, not sure what he'd done and after getting him to talk a little bit about his day and letting him eat two clementines, she said, "Honey, Peter and I discussed it, and, ah, did some research and we want you to see a therapist. We got the name of a lady who works with kids who have faced some of the stuff you've gone through, and she said she would work with you."

"I'm—it's," _okay, you don't have to keep me out of pity_ , "I'm not crazy, I promise." He might feel a little crazed inside his own skin these days, like he just wanted out, wanted a new façade, the same as any snake molting. But his decisions were rational, if outside the context of what the Burkes thought to be reality.

Elizabeth parked the car on a side street and said, "C'mon."

Neal followed her into a little storefront filled with unpainted pottery. Elizabeth ordered them a coffee each and gestured to the room. "Pick something out."

Neal opened his mouth, but Elizabeth gave him a Look that brooked no argument, so he went and perused the shelves until he finds a picture frame the right size for a photo Elizabeth and Peter loved of Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, Mikey, Gee and Bob all messing around with instruments Stark kept in his "music room." When asked why there was a music room, it was Pepper who said, "He likes to prepare for all possibilities."

Neal didn't have a clue what that meant, but he didn't really care, because those six _loved_ that room. They were all smiling in the picture, even Bob and Ryan. Neal collected some paint brushes and squeezed paint onto a paper plate for a makeshift palette. He sat across the work table from Elizabeth, who was working on a coffee mug.

When she spoke up, she asked, "Did you know Tony goes to a therapist? Pepper had to press the issue when he stopped sleeping, but since then, he's come around. Chris also does, mostly grief counseling, according to Buck and Mary. Leonard got ones for Jamie, Nyota and 'Karu. Trowa and Quatre have been speaking to Dr. Po for recommendations for their three. I don't, for a second, think any of the people I just listed are crazy."

Neal paid attention to the border he was painting and murmured, "Sorry."

"Hey, eyes on me."

Neal tucked away a grimace and complied. Elizabeth held his gaze. "We don't think you're crazy, Neal. We think you're justifiably scared and sad and that you understandably see the world at almost a ninety degree angle from how we do. We just…we want to make it better, honey, and we don't know how. Nothing we've tried has worked, not if you think for a second it would matter that you're about to gain a year."

Neal stuck to the classics, they were generally safe. "Sorry."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Not your fault. But we'd like it if you'd try this."

Neal blinked. They'd asked him to do it. Of course he would try. If it meant another year with the others, a year of not worrying where his next meal was coming from, he would do things far beyond attending a few head-doctor sessions. He swallowed down the bile that followed the thought, pushed back memories of wandering hands and of a tongue practically choking him. "I…yes."

Elizabeth stood so she could arch over the table and kiss his forehead. "Thank you."

Neal gave her the best smile he had on hand and concentrated fiercely on making the frame perfect.

*

Ms. Deveraux, ATR-BC, was all elegance and class. Neal was pretty sure, if he was interested in women, she'd at least merit a few looks even despite the age difference. Once inside her office, she slipped off her puzzle-pattern Diane von Furstenburgs and smiled at him while stretching out her toes. She said, "You're welcome to join."

Neal liked his shoes, black low-top Creative Recs. He knew they weren't terribly interesting but he enjoyed the lines and, more than anything, they were the only pair of shoes he'd ever owned that nobody else had worn before. Most days he walked more than he had to, just for the novelty of how the shoes actually fit his feet. He returned her smile. "Thanks."

She shrugged and sat down in a stuffed chair across from the sofa. She gestured to the sofa and Neal sat, doing his best for at-ease. She wasn't a real doctor, Neal knew. Peter had asked Stark if his therapist, Dr. Banner, knew anyone. Banner had consulted with the music therapist Barton and Winner had found for Une, Ms. Teng, with instructions to ask her about an art therapist, and the two of them had recommended Ms. Deveraux, an art therapist.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth and Peter had scheduled Ryan for therapy with Teng, since Barton thought Une was getting something out of her sessions. Neal didn't let himself wonder if an art therapist—anyone—could actually fix what was broken with him. For the slight chance of it, he'd do what she said, do anything. Deep down, he knew it wouldn't really mean keeping Elizabeth and Peter, but Neal hadn't lived for seventeen years, seven months and two weeks without recognizing that an infinitesimal amount of blind hope was a necessary ingredient for survival.

He swallowed. "Do I—should I draw a picture, or something?"

"You can, if you want," Ms. Deveraux said. "I thought, though, that we'd start just talking."

She had a lovely accent, the kind Neal and Ezra often practiced: soft and cultured. Neal knew it was foolish, but the sound of her voice calmed him down a little. "About?"

"I suppose I'm curious as to why you think you're here."

Neal considered the question. "Elizabeth and Peter, they…I'm worrying them."

She cocked her head. "Are _you_ worried?"

Neal was quiet for a long time, unsure of how to answer that. He was always worried about something, but he was pretty sure that wasn't what she meant. "Define 'worried.'"

"Do you think there are things about you that therapy can help to make better?"

Neal mostly thought the time when that would have been possible was long past. Still, he shrugged, "I want, I mean. It'd be nice, you know, to feel loved. For me. But that's—too much water under the bridge, or whatever the saying is."

He couldn't look at her as he said it, could barely force the words past his lips. Quietly, she asked, "And if we could beat back that tide?"

The problem with hope was that it was as terrifying as it was necessary for survival. After a moment, she let him off the hook, saying, "All right. Tell me your favorite thing to do."

The answer to that was easy: "Watch Gee draw."

*

Ms. Deveraux asked Neal to draw a road on his second visit. She had crayons, markers, colored pencils and even a palette of water colors. Neal asked, "What kind of road?"

She said, "The kind that seems right."

Neal thought for a moment, and then picked up one of the pencils. At first, he thought he was drawing their street, with its old New England trees and houses of wood and brick. But he found himself tugged toward the watercolors and markers to fill in the space outside the street, a scene that by the time he was done was both murky and too bright by turns.

When he hadn't added anything for a few minutes, Ms. Deveraux said, "You're very good at art, you realize?"

Neal shrugged. He was good at lying, and art often involved that. She asked, "You don't think so?"

Neal rubbed the back of his neck. "Elizabeth has a gallery. Of real artists. Their stuff, it…it's fresh with different meanings and people see all kinds of things when they look at it. Gee, he does that kind of thing, but he's more, um, he tells stories with his art. I'm just good at imitating the things I see. It's not art, it's doodles."

"So, the entire Tromp de l'oeil school was just doodling? Or Seurat? He had models, you know? It wasn't even always real scenes, but people he put in place so he could dot them all together."

Neal smiled. "Guess I should have been born a little earlier. I would have been a sensation."

She shook her head and pointed at his road. "This, Neal? This isn't the world I know. It's something you're showing me. And believe me when I say that I know doodling and chicken scratch and pure crap, and this is none of that. This is a picture drawn by an artist."

"I like…the way the pencil feels against a piece of paper. The way it can be thrown away if it's bad after all. You don't have to keep it, or anything."

"I should think you would like keeping things," she said softly.

" _Good_ things," Neal explained. "The others…we're talking about the other kids, right?"

Ms. Deveraux neither confirmed nor denied, which felt like agreement. Neal nodded. "There are nine of us, at the Burkes. At first, a long time ago, it was just me, but then—it's kind of like, you know how a lot of artists, people say their work is worthless their whole lives and then realize the genius after they die?"

"Mm."

"The others are like that. People just don't see what's really there, is all."

"But they do with you?"

Neal sighed. "I actually get that what I feel isn't rational."

"Feelings rarely are."

"But I—I don't know how to be rational anymore. Instinct on the streets was everything. And…again, in the cages. Um, you saw my health records?" Neal knew he and Peter had co-signed something allowing them to be released to her.

She grimaced, which was enough of a yes.

"It's hard to suddenly believe that everything I've understood to be true for the part of my life I can remember is maybe all wrong. I can say to myself, 'I'm one of the nine, and they love the other eight, it can't be different,' but they're just words."

"What if you drew it?"

Neal blinked. "Sorry?"

"What if, every time you need to layer that thought over your internal monologue you pulled out a sketch book and made," she smiled, "a _doodle_ to represent it?"

"I…can't see how that would be any different."

"Well," she said, "humor me."

*

Ms. Deveraux was right: there was something different about it. Neal couldn't say what, but it was like his brain could wrap itself around the images he created in a way it had never managed with the words. His was a shaky understanding, but three weeks after he'd started, when Peter asked Neal how his day had been, he didn't automatically tailspin into figuring out what would be best to tell Peter, if he'd done anything wrong, if any of the others needed protection. Then, when he realized he hadn't, he nearly had a panic attack about that, but caught himself in time.

He wasn't so lucky four days later in study hall. Ezra was usually in class during Neal's study period, but occasionally that teacher let them go their own ways so long as their assignments were done the next day. Neal was sprawled on the library floor, working on a physics problem when Ezra sat down beside him, one toe poking at Neal's hip.

And Neal lost time and place and rationality, caught in the sensation of a hand on his hip, holding too tightly, and Neal knowing he wouldn't run even were the hand to let him go. His chest hurt and he brought his hands to it, wondering what was wrong. His fingers didn't feel right. Nothing felt right. There was noise around him, but Neal couldn’t make it out, it was just dissonant sounds.

He felt hands on him and he tried to say, "No, no no," but there wasn't enough air.

*

The first thing Neal heard, when the white noise of the panic had begun to clear, was Mrs. Toro the librarian saying, "That's it, you've got it, just breathe," calmly and like talking kids out of complete nervous breakdowns was something she did every day. He listened to the steady cadence of her voice, waiting for his head to stop ringing in the aftermath of the attack.

Ezra was still there, straight within Neal's line of vision, right behind Mrs. Toro. He looked deceptively relaxed, which on Ezra was the exact same thing as really-fucking-freaked-out. When Neal had caught his breath he said, "Sorry. Sorry, Ez."

Mrs. Toro asked, "Is there someone you want me to call, Neal? Maybe get one of your siblings out of class? Or Mr. Barton or Mr. Winner?"

Neal shook his head and didn't let himself wonder what the faculty rumor mill made of Barton and Winner's gentle but consistent involvement with the kids who'd been abducted. "I'm—it's over."

"Are you sure?" she asked, her tone no more insistent, but maybe a little searching.

Neal found a shaky smile and hoped it was enough. "I'm sure. Ez'll take me to the nurse's office."

Neal saw the relief in her eyes at this and only felt a little bit sorry there wasn't any way in the world he was going to the nurse's office. Mrs. Toro stood and said, "I'm at the reference desk, if you need anything."

It took effort and more time than Neal would have liked for him to get to his feet. Ezra stepped in beside him somewhat hesitantly. The two of them made their way to the roof in silence. Once they were there, though, Ezra said, "I agreed to the plan."

Neal rubbed a hand over his chest. It was still aching. "I came up with the plan. And I don't regret it. We're all out."

"I don't know that you are," Ezra said, voice low.

"You ever get told something so many times you start to believe it? Or do it yourself? Come up with this idea and just keep pretending it's real until it is that way for you, but not really for anyone else?"

Ezra just gave him a look. "We're both street trash and con artists, Neal. I have some familiarity with the experiences of which you speak."

Neal smiled a little, genuinely. "I went into the system at five. And I remember, at first, I didn't want to be adopted, like it was a betrayal of my parents, or something. And by the time I wanted to, it was never going to happen, too old, too much of a record, but I was too young to really get that, so every time I was sent away for a reason—too loud, too quiet, too smart, too dumb—I would try and change that part of me, thinking there was some correct combination."

Ezra nodded. "If the con is good enough…"

"Yeah. The one thing I always was, to every family that took me in, was 'pretty.' I was 'such a pretty child.' I ran when I was thirteen because I had a foster who liked pretty."

Ezra kept his gaze on Neal, which Neal appreciated. Neal continued, "I was always 'too' something and I was always pretty, and I…I started thinking in those terms. About what I needed to hide, about what I could trade good looks for, that kind of thing. And, and then there was Gee and Mikey and they gave me purpose beyond mere survival."

"But now they're all safe," Ezra said knowingly.

"It's…I think it's more than that. I mean, yes, _yes._ But, in the cages? That plan? I really just thought it was an extension of what I'd always done, of who I was. If I cling to the word 'protector,' I don't have to hear the others."

Neal swallowed. "Except, lately, it's kind of like I can't separate being a protector from being pretty, can't figure out where the line is drawn between good-older-brother and too clingy. I—I feel like the only things that define me anymore are the things that have been done or said to me and it makes me, makes my stomach and my head hurt and nothing feel right."

"What does your art lady say?"

"I'm kind of having a breakthrough moment, here, so I don't know yet."

"Maybe…maybe you need to start over?" Ezra suggested.

Neal laughed bitterly. "How, Ez?"

"I suppose if we both took one word a week out of the vocabulary we define ourselves by, sooner or later there will be no more left, and then we will have to find new words."

Neal's eyes widened. "We?"

"I agreed to the plan, Neal. And I let you do it on your own. No more."

"Okay," Neal agreed, and tried to think about how they were doing this together, for each other and with each other, but not as protectors, as friends. He said, "I need my sketch pad."

*

About a week later, when Neal was lying on his bed, reading for history class, and Gee was on his bed, waging an eternal campaign against the vagaries of plant biology, Gee rolled onto his side and asked, "Neal?"

"Mm?" Neal finished the sentence he was on, then looked over.

"Don't, um, don't be mad, okay? Because it was an accident."

"Gee," Neal said softly. "When have I ever—"

"Just. I was looking for my charcoal pencils? And I thought, you know, sometimes you use them, so I looked in your drawer and I, um. I saw some of the art."

Neal wasn't exactly hiding it. He wouldn't have put it in a drawer he knew Gee sometimes checked for things if he had been. "Really just doodles."

Gee frowned. "I don't—I _like_ your art. It's not doodles, it's…honest. It kind of makes me think of Munch and how real everything was in his stuff, despite the creative license."

"Munch," Neal repeated blankly.

Gee shrugged. "Not the same style at all, but the same, uh, feel, I guess."

Neal leaned over and got the journal he was working on now out of the bookbag next to his bed. He'd finished the first one recently, started a second. He was trying to figure out how to draw what he was feeling just then, his burgeoning sense of confusion and the beginning of a paradigm shift. He rested his pencil against the paper and said, without looking at Gee, "I've always liked your stuff, the way it took me other places, sometimes better, sometimes worse, but different."

Gee laughed a little and Neal made a questioning sound. Gee said, "My stuff's a metaphor, Neal. Trolls and vampires are just more interesting than…well, anything."

And weirdly, safer, but Neal didn't know how to explain that to Gee. Instead he just said, "It's a cool metaphor," and went back to trying to draw out a feeling he'd never really had before.

*

Neal knew the things Ms. Deveraux asked him to draw were tests, he got that. But he also thought this might be his last real chance at things being okay, so he did his best to be honest in his drawings. After one session, peering at what he'd done, Ms. Deveraux looked up and asked, "Have you ever run?"

"Run?"

"For fun," she clarified. "Or, I don't know, thought about trying tennis or golf or something that's about goals and yourself and physical release?"

Neal couldn't help smiling. "Um, no?"

She laughed. "Fair enough."

"Why?"

She tapped one of his pictures. "Because you need to focus on you more, and I think it would help."

Neal felt like all he'd been doing since—since the hospital was thinking about himself, but she hadn't been wrong so far in her guidance, so he said, "Running, huh?"

"Pole vault is another good one."

It took Neal a second longer than it should have to realize she was fucking with him.

*

He asked Elizabeth and Peter if they knew of any running trails nearby. He didn't want them to have to buy a membership to a gym, or anything. He could run on the track at school if need be, but the idea of going in circles inside a gymnasium poked at his newly-developed claustrophobia something fierce. Neal suspected it was the mouse-in-a-wheel sensation of it.

Peter said, "If you're going to take up running, we need to get you running shoes and appropriate clothing."

"Oh." Neal hadn't thought about that. He'd been convinced running would be a cheap hobby, something nobody had to go out of their way to help him do. "I—what I have is fine."

Peter just raised an eyebrow at that. Without pushing, though, he asked, "Why the sudden decision to run?"

"Ms. Deveraux thinks I need a physical activity that's just about me." Neal looked away as he said it, feeling naked and raw and stupid.

After a second, Peter said, "I think I have a better idea than running. Trust me, kiddo?"

The answer to that was really complicated, but given the context Neal just nodded.

*

Two days later, Peter picked Neal up from school telling the others Chris would be by for them in a bit and to stay at Vin's place until Elizabeth came for them. Once they were on the road, Peter asked, "How was your day?"

Neal shrugged. "I got an A- on the history paper."

Peter smiled. "Well done."

"My teacher says my writing syntax is still a little below expected levels."

"You've been in school for less than a year after over four years of nothing, and seven years prior to that of disrupted schooling. It's amazing you even know what the word 'syntax' means, Neal."

Neal wasn't so sure about that, but it felt nice to hear. He pulled his sketch pad out of his bag and recorded the feeling, since he was supposed to try keeping a sketch-log of things that made him feel good, if uncertain. He also worked on his current project of taking the word "stupid" out of his vocabulary while he was at it. He'd been stuck on that one for a few days, but when he'd told Ezra, the other boy had just shrugged and said, "I've been on 'worthless' for two weeks."

Neal was just about done drawing when they arrived at their destination, a farmstead a little less than an hour north of Neal's school. A large man with a big smile—and really big teeth to go with it—walked out. "You must be Chris and Buck's friend. I'm Josiah."

Peter held out his hand. "Peter Burke, and this is my son, Neal."

Neal was doing better about not blinking at that description. He put on his best new-people smile and said, "Pleasure to meet you."

He didn't hold out his hand and Josiah didn't either, so Neal had a feeling he'd been warned extra touching might not go over so well. Instead he asked, "Chris says you're new to this?"

Neal cocked his head. "Farming?"

Josiah looked confused and Peter looked slightly abashed. He told Neal, "I didn't want to give you a chance to get nervous. How do you feel about horses?"

"Um." Slowly, Neal came up with, "They're pretty in pictures?"

Something bleak crossed over Peter's features and Neal tried to find a way to fix whatever he'd done, but Josiah interrupted with a, "They're even better in the flesh, son. C'mon."

Neal followed numbly, making sure Peter was still behind him. Peter gave him a small, encouraging smile. They went into a large barn-like structure, which Neal quickly realized was a stable, long rows of horse pens unfolding in front of him. Josiah paused for a moment, then said, "Sev, I think."

He walked about halfway down, stopping in front of a pen holding a horse with black feet and chestnut coloring. The name plate on the pen said, "Sevilen."

Josiah held out a hand and she pressed her nose into it. "She's in very small part Arabian, which is how we think she got her name. She's mostly Bay, but someone down the line must have decided her heritage deserved a nod. The name means 'loved' in Turkish. We purchased her a couple of years back, when she was nine as part of starting up a program for handicapped veterans. She's sort of become the mascot of the program." He looked over his shoulder at Neal. "Why don't you try petting her?"

Neal wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. She was big, really big, and could probably sense city boys from about twelve miles away. But Peter was looking at him hopefully, so Neal swallowed back his fear and stepped up to the pen. He was still getting up the nerve to raise his hand when she butted her nose gently against his forehead and whickered. Neal couldn't help laughing. It was soft and ticklish all at the same time. His hand came up of its own accord, stroking along the side of her jaw. "Hey there, girl."

Neal lost himself so completely in the calm sweetness of her eyes, the silky length of her mane, he was shocked to remember there were people with him when Josiah asked, "All right then, wanna learn how to saddle her up?"

*

Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays become riding days. If Peter couldn't take Neal, then Elizabeth would, and if Elizabeth couldn't, Buck or Chris would. If none of the four could, Josiah sent his intern, Casey, to pick Neal up. Neal liked Casey. She didn't pry and she had a way with even the most scared of horses. She could be patient, too, when teaching Neal things like how to pick stones out of the horse's hooves. But she liked to ride faster than Neal's eyes could properly see.

Sev would nicker the moment he stepped into the stable, and chew on his hair as soon as he got close enough. Neal said to Ms. Deveraux, "It's not exactly just about me, like you said. There's Sev. She needs brushing and treats and encouragement."

"I think her interference in your progress can be overlooked," she'd responded dryly while looking at Neal's sketches for the week.

*

Neal hid the information on taking the SATs and thinking about colleges until he was ratted out by Parker mentioning there'd been an assembly for juniors. At which point, Elizabeth asked, "Why the big secret?"

Neal pushed down the urge to glare at Parker, who would only take it as a sign of success. He said, "They're not even sure I'll be able to graduate next year. I still have to test past credits."

"Okay, but in this house we prefer to plan for things that are eventually going to happen no matter how long it takes. Like college."

Neal blinked at her. For a moment her jaw tightened, then her face softened. "Unless you don't want to go to college? Because there are other options. We could look at design schools or vocational schools or if you wanted to get a job for a bit, that would be fine. It's whatever you want, sweetie."

"Harvey says I'm going to Harvard," Mike piped up from the kitchen table, where he was having his afternoon snack. Bob liked babysitting for him, so he was at the Burke house on weekdays after school more often than not.

Elizabeth smiled. "Harvey will love you whatever you decide to do. He just wants the best for you."

"I want to make Harvey happy," Mike said, in that open way he had. Neal envied the kid his fearless relationship with honesty, sometimes. Of course, Mike was a genius and still young enough to be cute. It made up for a lot of things.

Elizabeth stared at Mike for a moment and then rounded on Neal, her eyes narrowing. "And you want to make us happy, huh?"

Neal knew there was a trick in the question. "I—maybe a job for a bit? Then I could take night school." And pay for it, at least in part.

"Neal," she said, and he couldn't read her tone, but it wasn't happy.

Bob, sitting next to Mikey, said, "School's expensive. And there are already legal bills and nine of us. You can't blame us for thinking college is a bad idea."

"Harvey's not charging. Not for any of the work with you guys. And Peter and I aren't adopting you just to turn you out into the streets when you're old enough to hold down a minimum wage position. We want life to be _good_ for you. Otherwise, what was all this for?"

Neal swallowed down the need to wail in frustration. "The fact that you think you have to do anything else to have made life good for us? That's—we just, we all speak different languages. I don't understand yours and you don't understand mine."

"I'm trying to," Elizabeth said. "I really am. And Peter is too. But your language involves a lot of settling, and Peter and I won't have that for our children. We just won't."

Neal sighed softly. Elizabeth said, "It's just a trip to look at colleges, Neal. That's all. Just a test to see what you score. Just…try. For me?"

Neal wanted to say 'unfair,' because she was manipulating him and they both knew it. Instead he nodded slowly. "All right."

*

Neal's birthday fell on a Tuesday. Elizabeth made fruit pizzas for breakfast. He had a pop quiz in geometry which he was fairly sure he'd passed and they played basketball in PE, but Neal was excused since random people touching him was still a good way to make panic attacks and unthinking violence occur. Ezra gave him a petit fours from the French bakery near the Wilmington's apartment for lunch. It was basically a pleasant and unremarkable day. Given that Neal had spent months feeling like it was a drop-dead date, it was nice that it just wasn't that big a deal.

The year before they'd barely been out of the gallery, and neither Elizabeth or Peter had known it was his birthday—something Elizabeth had attempted to discuss with him when they found out; he'd deflected neatly—so this was technically his first birthday with them. He didn't have any expectations, since he couldn't remember ever having something special happen on his birthday. As such, the fruit pizzas and pastries made for a really nice change, and Neal couldn't help feeling a little bit of a buzz.

Peter showed up after school and said, "Tell Ezra and Vin they're coming with us."

Neal nodded. Chris and Buck often sent Ezra and Vin to the Burkes if everyone in their household was busy. It wasn't that the two couldn't be left alone, but everyone preferred to avoid doing so, including Ezra and Vin. When they were all, Eliot and Parker included, in the car, Neal asked Peter, "You get off early for some reason?"

"Other than that Diana has a soft spot for leaders of ragamuffin gangs who kidnap her? No, not really."

Neal smiled. "Tell her thanks."

It became apparent they weren't headed back to the house. Parker started up a guessing game as to where they were going. Neal knew, but he kept his mouth shut. He was pretty sure Vin and Ezra knew as well. Chris and Buck took them out to the stables regularly.

When they arrived, Sev was out in the paddock and she cantered over to the gate nearest to him. Neal grinned and made his way to her, pressing his forehead to her nose. From behind him, someone said, "Neal?"

Neal turned around. "Hey, um. What're you—"

Gee smiled. "Happy birthday. C'mon, Peeta made cookies and cakes but they won't let us have any until you join."

Knowing he sounded stupid, Neal repeated, "What?"

Gee held out a hand. Neal looked down at it, took a breath, and latched on.

*

Everyone was in the office. Literally, probably almost everyone Neal knew in the world. Tasha and Clint were already in the rafters, and Phil was watching them out of the corner of his eye, pretending he didn't notice.

John was looking at pictures of horses up on the wall, asking Casey questions about them. Ronon and Jo were in a corner, their backs to the walls, knees touching. 'Karu and Kat were discussing something, probably plants. Both of them were big fans of growing things.

Josiah was giving Mike a ride on his shoulders. Parker was pretending not to be envious, and Bob was headed her way. Finn, Brendon and Duo were eyeing the sweets. Spencer, Une and Nyota were helping Peeta arrange and re-arrange the table. Mikey and Ryan were under the table, reading. Jamie and Heero were tucked away at one of the desks, playing chess, Ezra watching. One of the doctors had taught them while they were hanging around the hospital and neither of them seemed to be able to stop. Vin was nowhere to be found, but Neal would have put good money he was just saying hi to the horse he rode, probably taking Eliot with for an introduction. Eliot hadn't said a word, but his eyes had gotten soft and distant every time Neal had come home from riding. It had been on Neal's list of things to talk with Peter and Elizabeth about. He wondered if now maybe he wouldn't have to. It would be nice to cross something off.

The adults were all in small clusters, keeping an eye on everyone, but not interfering so long as nobody was doing anything likely to end in tears. When Gee pulled Neal into the room, everyone looked over and various shouts of "Happy birthday" cascaded his direction. Neal wasn't entirely sure what to say, how to react. There really was cake, and someone—probably Stark, he had a thing for extravagance—had dry-ice packed ice cream from no less than two local places. Neal's friends were here, there was a table with wrapped presents on it, and he could ride Sev in a bit. He whispered, unable to remember how to speak loudly, "I think this might be the best day of my life."

Gee squeezed his hand and pulled him toward the cake table. Neal was just glad someone had a sense of direction left. He was also glad some of the other kids looked just as happily confused as him by singing and candles and amazingly good chocolate-caramel-pecan layer cake.

When Mike handed him a card at first, dumbly, Neal wasn't even sure what to do with it. He caught Harvey's eye and the other man said, "Open it."

It was a gift certificate to a sporting store, the kind that would carry riding gear. Peeta gave him a card with the promise of a baked good or batch of them of his choice whensoever he should like.

Some of the gifts were tangible, like the oil painting supplies from Neal and Elizabeth, and the gorgeous book about horses from John, Ronon, Jennifer and Elizabeth the Second. A lot were gift certificates to various places, none of which Neal really _needed_ anything from, but all of which he could spend hours just wandering around.

The card from Tony, Pepper, Jo, Finn and Kat promised a full ride for whatever post-secondary schooling he decided to pursue. Neal read it three times, before saying, "This isn't—"

Peter, who'd read it from Neal's side cut in, "That's generous, Tony, but we can take care—"

"I really don't care what you can take care of, or what is necessary or anything," Pepper said sweetly. And the thing about Pepper was, there was a reason she was a CEO. She was hard to argue with. "I care—"

"We care," Stark interjected.

"—about the fact that he saved _our_ kids and all of their closest friends."

Jo, Finn and Kat were all staring at Pepper and Stark, the latter of whom bounded over to the closest one—Finn—and hugged until he responded. Neal said, "I didn't save—"

"You kinda did," Jo said, in her tone that said her words were Truth.

Neal ran his fingers over the words, written in Stark's large letters. He said, "Well, if I did, it wasn't for this."

"No," Kat said slowly and Neal looked over at her, surprised. Kat wasn't much of a talker. She twisted her lips. "No, but, you…we all got families, Neal. Not just lives, not just—"

Neal nodded. He understood. Kat said, "They say it's pocket change and I think it might be."

"Nothing in exchange for everything," Stark agreed. "Best deal SI has ever negotiated."

"Let us say thank you," Pepper chimed in quietly. Neal thought about all the ways he'd wanted to say thank you to Elizabeth and Peter, about never being able to, about the way it sat inside him.

Neal said, "O-okay," and before he could renege, moved onto another present.

He opened Gee's last. It was a drawing of him and Sev, only by Gee, so Neal was a badass looking demon and Sev was a steampunk unicorn. It was the most awesome thing Neal was ever going to own.

*

Because this was Neal's life, he had an absolutely paralyzing nightmare a night later, the party interwoven with and twisted around the cages and the streets. He woke up already crying. He'd woken Gee and Mikey. He apologized and then slipped out of the room. He needed light and air. He made his way to the back porch, flipping the light on. It was still just slightly too cool to be out there barefoot, but Neal didn't care, kind of liked the bite against his feet. It was grounding.

The worst part was that in Neal's waking hours, the party had helped. It had settled something in him. It figured his subconscious would try to take that away from him, try to make it into something representing all that could be taken away from him. Neal leaned his forehead up against the patio railing, trying to focus on the pattern of his breathing.

He heard the door open behind him. Elizabeth said, "Oh baby," and came over to where he could see her.

Neal straightened, feeling sick in the pit of his stomach. "Did I wake you?"

"No, Gee."

What the fuck was going on? Neal pushed the thought aside, he could investigate why Gee had suddenly gone insane later. He said, "It was just a nightmare. Needed some air." He pulled out a smile. "Sorry."

"Mm," Elizabeth said. "Follow me."

It wasn't a request, so Neal obeyed. He kept paying attention to his breathing, not letting go of the rhythms Ms. Deveraux had walked him through when he'd hyperventilated in a session one day. It helped to blank out his mind, let everything become white noise.

Elizabeth headed into the family room, where Peter was already sitting on the couch. Neal's stomach dropped. "I—"

"We just want to hold you for a little bit, Neal. Do you think you can handle it?" Peter asked, no censure in the question.

Neal almost denied out of habit. But before the words could come out of his mouth he realized that for the first time since the cages, since the fights and the hands he didn't want on him, he wanted to be touched with kindness, embraced with care. He wanted it desperately. He nodded. Peter said, "C'mere."

They tucked him between themselves, Peter solid and warm and safe, Elizabeth soft and careful and loving. Neal didn't even realize he was crying until a sort of mewl came out of his mouth, and Peter said, "I know kid, I know. But it's gonna get better."

Neal clung to them and cried, cried until his face hurt, until his eyes couldn't stay open, until he forgot he was even embarrassed by his own weakness, until he fell asleep in their arms.

*

Neal drew the nightmare and the time with Elizabeth and Peter in his next therapy session. Ms. Deveraux considered the latter. "Did it help? The touch?"

"What does the picture say?" Neal asked.

She pinned him with an unimpressed look. "Something has changed. I'm not a card reader, Neal. And a picture might be worth a thousand words, but they're not always the right words."

Neal frowned. "It's…strange. Crying has never really helped before."

"But it did this time?"

Slowly, Neal said, "I feel cleaner, I think."

"If you can," she said quietly, "some hug therapy might not go amiss, Neal. You're probably more touch-starved than you think by this time. I suspect there was a combination of forces happening."

Neal looked at his hands and thought about where they'd been. It didn't have as much sting to it as it had only weeks before. He thought about putting them in someone else's, anyone else's. "I'll try."

*

Two weeks after school let out for summer, Neal went to the courthouse to testify. Harvey'd run him through a mock-trial a few days earlier and Neal had spent the rest of the day curled in between his bed and the wall, drawing furiously, until Gee, Mikey and Bob had banded together to pull him out and cuddle him while watching old movies on Turner Classic.

Jamie was there with McCoy when Neal and Peter arrived, Ezra and Buck came in a few minutes later, Kat and Stark following them. Eliot, Vin, Heero, Duo, Une and John had all agreed they would testify if needed, but Harvey was of the school of less is more. The other kids' medical files and police statements were included in the evidence.

They weren't allowed to see each other testify. Ezra went first, then Kat. Neal was third. Harvey led him through the questions they'd practiced and Neal appreciated the run-through, able to grasp that it helped this feel normal, even as he was sitting in a witness chair, having sworn an oath on a bible.

Harvey had prepped him for opposing counsel, stating they were likely to take one of three tacks, or possibly a mix: the first would be to impeach Neal's testimony by asking about his criminal and civil records, but they'd have to stick to acts showing a tendency to lie on Neal's part, and while Neal had been picked up for pickpocketing once, fraud was not on his record. They might try to use the former, but Harvey was going to object, and it would be sustained.

The second would be to make him seem unreliable because of his youth and emotional trauma. The whole thing was, to a certain extent, hard to believe. It would be a good tactic to try and convince the jury it was largely the product of a group of disturbed kids trying to win sympathy and families. Neal had asked, "How do I respond?"

Harvey'd paused for a moment before saying, "Neal, you already had a family when you were taken." Then, "Also, the medical records are hard to get past. Someone caused the damage. The jury will draw its own conclusions."

The third was to attack Neal and hope he said something unwise. Harvey said, "Unlikely at best. Going for kids' jugulars is never a good way to win over a jury."

They did try to bring up Neal's record, but Harvey quashed the approach. Mostly, though, they implied he'd taken his con-artist ways on the road in order to keep the Burkes from throwing him out at eighteen. Neal considered each of the questions carefully, particularly when asked, "Do you believe you would still be living with the Burkes, having aged out of the system, if they did not feel a sense of responsibility for your alleged trauma at the hands of my clients?"

Six weeks ago, maybe even a month, Neal's answer would have been, "No." Not for any of the reasons opposing counsel was trying to imply, but because the damage to Neal extended a fair bit further than just this most recent trip to hell. Neal took a breath and then another and said, "Yeah. Yes. I believe—I believe they think of me as their kid."

Harvey had told him never to say more than necessary, but that last part felt important. It wasn't "I think they love me," or even, "I believe they care," but it was what Neal could give, what he could allow. Peter, who was sitting behind Harvey, blinked, and Neal watched as he turned slightly to the side to compose himself, before returning his gaze to Neal, an open grin gracing his face.

*

As a group, Neal and the other kids spent the first few weeks of summer in and out of the library, looking at college books. Gee wanted to go to RISD the moment he learned about it, had already made it his life's goal. This had determined that Mikey wanted to go Rhode Island College, so they wouldn't have to be in different cities for long.

Bob was wavering between degrees in early childhood education or social work, but he was set on staying nearby, so probably CCNY. Eliot wanted to work for a bit after school, wasn't really enticed by any of the options. Brendon was already pining for the Manhattan School of Music. Spencer wanted to be nearby, and possibly, Neal suspected, to grow up to be exactly like Harvey, so was jonesing for John Jay. Ryan wouldn’t say one way or another, and Neal thought he probably couldn't be fucked to care so long as he was within commuting distance of Brendon and Spencer and actually got to attend classes. Ryan could be heartbreakingly easy to please.

Neal…Neal had no idea what he wanted. He knew it wasn’t enough to want to make the others happy, or, at least, he had gotten to the part where he was rationally aware of that, if not emotionally. But his whole life had been focused on keeping the others safe, on getting from point A to point B. He had never even really imagined there _was_ a point C, but here it was, and he didn't know which direction to turn.

Ms. Deveraux gave him fingerpaint and said, "Have fun," and by the end of the session Neal was filthy and reams of white paper were drenched in green and blue, brown and black and white. She tilted her head and asked, "Is that Sev?"

It was. Neal hadn't been thinking about her, not consciously, but there she was, all lines and motion. And Gee was there, too, in his own way. All the kids were. Not physically, but Neal could see where he'd hidden bits of color, symbols that represented them for him. He suspected if he looked hard enough he would find Elizabeth and Peter, too, implicitly, maybe, but there.

"You know," she said slowly, "there are a couple of schools in upstate that have equine studies. Maybe you would like it, or maybe not. But I think…I think it's possible you'd find something you liked, if you started with that."

Neal chewed on his lip. "I don't think there are a lot of jobs in that."

"There's equine therapy. The stable Sev's at has it. You're right, it's not a burgeoning field, exactly, but you'd be good at it, if you so chose, and you have connections. Besides, that's—right now, you just need to make one decision, and that's about college. You seem to know you want to go. So the question is where? And if nothing else can narrow it down for you, then liking horses and wanting to stay near are two decent criteria."

Neal stared at the swirls of color. Softly, she said, "You've landed on your feet before, Neal, with far worse odds. Take a chance on yourself."

It felt like the hardest thing in the world to nod his head, give his agreement. He did it anyway.


End file.
